


Out Of Sight

by BeautifulFiction



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24106924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: Sometimes the noise pressed into his ears and clamped a hand over his mouth, making it hard to draw his next breath. Sometimes, wings of panic fluttered their dark veils at the corner of his vision as the mountain's walls closed in around him, and the need to bolt outside beneath the bright blue vault of the sky burned in his bones.An hour, undisturbed. That's all he had wanted, and so to get it he had reached for the only secret he had left: the ring.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 24
Kudos: 133





	Out Of Sight

**Author's Note:**

> For Serpensortia 💖

Bilbo Baggins was a fool. He could think of a dozen other names to describe his own idiocy, each more crude than the last. Rock-headed, the dwarves would say. A complete and utter boulder-brain. 

He had hoped for a few minutes of peace and quiet; that was all. Erebor's crowded, bustling halls grated on the nerves, after a while. It was not as if he could slip unnoticed through the throng, either. As Thorin's beloved and the only hobbit in the whole mountain, he stood out like a sore thumb. 

Most days, he relished the opportunity to help Erebor and its people. He was more fulfilled here than he had been in decades back in the Shire. Needed. _Wanted_... But sometimes the noise pressed into his ears and clamped a hand over his mouth, making it hard to draw his next breath. Sometimes, wings of panic fluttered their dark veils at the corner of his vision as the mountain's walls closed in around him, and the need to bolt outside beneath the bright blue vault of the sky burned in his bones.

An hour, undisturbed. That's all he had wanted, and so to get it he had reached for the only secret he had left: the ring.

He had ducked out of sight and slipped into the shadow world like a fish diving into water. Every time he did it, it felt a little easier. Or perhaps he was just becoming used to the bone-deep chill and strange, breathless gale of the place. It pushed his curls back from his brow as it sucked the colour from the landscape, turning it into gleaming, metallic shades and trailing mist. 

There, unseen, he had passed through Erebor, heading ever upwards towards the wide, open spaces of the ramparts. No one had stopped him. Not the Company, and not the guards. He'd broken free of the mountain like a bird taking flight from its cage, sucking huge lungfuls of air so cold it burned: the taste of freedom.

That was where he now stood, his face burning with mortification and his veins full of panic. He'd gone to take the ring off, the better to enjoy the sunshine. Except the golden band would not budge. It jammed on the knuckle, the clammy skin of his hands acting more like sticky honey than any kind of grease. 

Popping his middle finger in his mouth, he laved it with spit and tried again, but the dead air of the shadow realm sucked the moisture away before the ring got anywhere. He twisted and pulled until his knuckles popped, a half-sob of desperation catching in his throat. Worse, all this effort made his hand sore and swollen. If he wasn't careful, he'd be stuck in the damn thing for days!

Bilbo huffed a breath, jamming his hands on his hips as he told himself not to panic. While the shadow realm was not as shocking as it had been the first time he had entered it, he had no desire to linger. The punishing cold already nibbled at his bones, and he could never quite shake the feeling that he was being watched. No, the sooner he got this ring off, the better. 

Narrowing his eyes, he tried to remember previous times he'd had to interact with the real world while wearing the ring. It was still there, layered like a painting over the place he occupied. Things in his pockets came with him, he knew that much. Sting's constant presence at his side remained, as did the beads in his hair, but they had been touching him when he put on the ring. Did that make a difference?

Searching the length of the rampart, he found a small, loose stone, no bigger than his thumbnail. Perfect. He couldn't hurt a rock with his touch, and hopefully it could not do him any harm, benign as it was. 

Wetting his lips, he bent down to scoop it up, his fingers closing around its surface like claws. At first, it felt as if he were holding nothing but air. There was no sense of pressure or weight until he tried to lift it. 

Immediately, a sweat popped out across his skin, chased by rashes of hot and cold that rattled through his flesh. A great weight bore down upon him, as if he were trying to move the mountain itself, ripping it away from the earth into which it plunged its roots. His heart hammered with the effort, his vision turning wobbly at its edges before he finally wrested the pebble free.

The burden vanished, sending him sprawling backwards with the rock in his hand. His head smacked on the solid rampart beneath him, and Bilbo spat a curse, clutching at his aching skull as his body shook from the strain. Worse, it felt like it had taken something out of him –as if part of his spirit had been forced to spend itself in the attempt.

'Right,' he wheezed, his words echoing and hollow in the non-air. 'I won't be doing that again.' 

After a moment of staring up at the wash of storm-clouds above him, he rolled over, bullying his trembling frame onto its hands and knees. Every limb shook and every joint felt as if it were carved from granite, rigid and unmoving. His chest ached, and an odd, metallic taste coated his tongue. Still, he refused to succumb. This was not the kind of problem that would get better by itself. If he stayed here lying on the ramparts, then he'd die. No one would even know where to find his body.

What would his friends think? What would _Thorin_ think? That he'd just vanished without a trace, slipping away like a ghost? No. No, he wouldn't have that. This was his own stupid fault, and he was damned if he would let anyone else suffer for his foolishness. 

Maybe he could not do this by himself, but there were others who might help. Gandalf still made his home in the mountain, not due to leave for a few more weeks. Thranduil was also their guest, though not for much longer. Surely two of the most magical beings of Bilbo’s acquaintance would be able to help him out of this mess?

He just had to find them.

With shaking knees, he managed to sway to his feet, his hand groping blindly for the rampart wall as the world performed a giddy spin. The sweat on his skin cooled, leaving him sheathed in a shroud of ice. His mouth, dry and claggy, carried the faint taste of acidic bile. Grimacing, he inched along the ramparts towards the door that would allow him back into the mountain. 

Under Middle-earth's sky, the world had been dim, but still lit from one edge to the other. Slipping into Erebor was like being swallowed down the gullet of some monstrous beast. Torches and lamps lit the stairs, but in the ring's realm, those flames became little more than pin pricks pocking the darkness: stars in some eternal night. Silver and mithril tones darkened to pewter and lead, and Bilbo pressed his palms to the walls as he eased his way down the many, many steps into Erebor's familiar halls.

By the time he got to the bottom, he felt as if he could shut his eyes and sleep for a year. He had always been running for his life or hiding from some kind of threat when wearing the ring before. He'd never found the opportunity to notice how different things could be. 

He could feel his feet against the floor, but there was a fractional delay between his brain deciding his soles had hit the stone and his body confirming it. Everything seemed sluggish, as if he were walking through jam. At first, it felt as if he'd had a few too many pints of ale in the pub, but now, after being stuck for so long, his head pounded like a bass drum, furious and sick.

'What do you mean, you've not seen him?' 

Thorin! Bilbo picked up his pace and scrabbled along the wall, barely noticing the way the stone – sharper here – cut into his fingertips. That beloved voice sounded distant to his ears, muffled, as if he heard it underwater, but he could still make out the thick vein of concern beneath the demand. He was worried, and Bilbo did not need to be a clever hobbit to know his absence was the likeliest cause of Thorin’s disquiet. Had he been gone longer than he thought, or had Thorin merely missed him? 

Rounding the corner, Bilbo slammed to a halt, rigid with surprise. He did not know what he expected. He had not observed people when wearing the ring, not really. Only Gollum: a blurred, ghostly version of himself. He imagined the dwarves to look the same. Half-there, half-not. Nori and Dwalin both fit his expectation, but Thorin?

Thorin glowed.

A shimmering halo of gold dust surrounded him, rippling outwards at the edges like the blazing sun in midsummer. He could see the motes of it sparkling where they drifted through the air, their ripple mesmerising. With every beat of Bilbo's heart, the mist seemed to undulate, shadow and highlight falling across it like...

Like scales. Dragon scales.

The realisation hit him hard, and Bilbo took an uncertain step back, his teeth sinking into his lip and his eyes narrowing against the brightening glare: molten gold and dragon-fire with Thorin at its core.

Abruptly, the vision faded, leaving only a faint sparkle in the air. It lingered, but no longer did the memory of Smaug loom over Bilbo, as real as it had been so many months ago. It was as if Thorin had pushed it back, tucking it away from sight, and Bilbo's frightened heart swelled to three times its normal size with pride.

He knew the gold-sickness haunted Thorin still. The fear of its return weighed heavy on his mind. He confided in Bilbo, in warm, loving whispers in their shared nights, how he had placed contingencies to curtail his rule should it ever rear its head again. How if he turned to greed and malice, his crown and, if necessary, his life would be forfeit. 

How often had Bilbo lain there, scattering breathless kisses over his skin and promising that they were all watching out for him, making sure his mind stayed clear? Now, he realised, none of them watched Thorin as carefully as the dwarf watched himself. Every day he fought back the phantom clutches of his worst nightmares, and every day he triumphed.

'He was in the treasury this morning,' Dwalin stated. 'His guards reported he'd slipped their watch no more than two hours since.' The big dwarf’s jaw clenched, and Bilbo felt a pang of remorse. This was not in any way what he had intended. If he thought his personal guard would let him have a sliver of solitude, he would have kept them informed, but they were young and keen. No one wanted to be the dwarf who lost the King's lover. Now they ranged behind Dwalin, looking sick behind their beards.

'Where did you last see him?' Thorin demanded, reining in his urge to snap with visible effort. He knew they could not be to blame. There was not a single member of the Company who did not realise how sneaky Bilbo could be, even without the ring to help him. 

'Near the Main Hall,' Captain Ril announced, her full lips pursed in irritation. 'He was on his way to the kitchens, just ahead of us. He turned a corner and then...' She shifted, her chainmail hissing softly. 'He was not out of our sight for more than a handful of seconds, Your Majesty.'

'There's no sign of foul play,' Nori added, 'and I know what to look for. No struggle, no blood, nothing.'

'But the Burglar's never gone off on his own for so long before,' Dwalin pointed out, his fingers tightening around the shaft of his axe. 'An hour, I'll give him that, but no longer.' He straightened, his expression losing its blank, soldierly facade. 'Unless you two had a tiff?'

Thorin shook his head, his gaze unfocussed as he rubbed a hand through his beard, following the line of his jaw. 'Get the others of the Company to keep an eye out. Be subtle about it. The last thing we need is the whole mountain in an uproar. Check everywhere twice. I'm assuming you made sure he hadn't gone to the kitchens as you first believed?'

'Bombur says not. Earnest, too. He always winks when he's covering for Master Baggins, so that we know he's safe in the pantry.'

Bilbo rolled his eyes; he thought he'd been cunning! Now it turned out they were humouring him. Still, the notion brought a faint smile to his lips, and he felt doubly bad for his deception and the stupid situation he had found himself in. 

Once, not too long ago, he had wondered if anyone would miss him if he vanished one day. Now, he could see the truth first hand. Perhaps they weren't obvious about it, but Nori was chewing his thumbnail and Dwalin kept shifting his weight, like a dog eager to pick up the scent of his quarry. His guards looked miserable, and not just because of their failure to keep tabs on him. He knew them well; their names, their families – he considered them friends.

Then there was Thorin. Though the shadow realm leached him of colour, he seemed paler still, like a dwarf carved from bone. His hands hung at his side, tightening into quick, helpless fists before falling slack once more. A mighty frown cleaved his brow, putting his concern on clear display. 

Bilbo longed to reach out, to stroke his fingers over that furrowed flesh and ease away the stress he could see bowing Thorin's shoulders. He would make it up to him, Bilbo promised himself. He'd shower him in kisses and have his toes curling in pleasure: an apology they could both enjoy. First, though, he needed to find out how to get this thrice cursed ring off his bloody finger!

'I'll find Gandalf,' Thorin decided. 'He has an uncanny ability to pinpoint where Bilbo is hiding. Perhaps he knows something we don't.'

'He was talking to Thranduil in the council gardens, last I saw him,' Dwalin replied, giving a faint, pitying smile as Thorin grimaced. 'Not half-an-hour gone.'

It might not please Thorin to know the wizard and elf were in each other's company, but it suited Bilbo perfectly. He'd rather not traipse all over the mountain unless he had no choice. The skin on his face grew raw, as if scraped by a constant, icy wind. His clothes, too, felt stiff, and his blood had turned sluggish in his veins. 

The cold was not something sensed with his flesh, but deeper down, in the roots of his bones. He found himself longing for the simple pleasures of a blazing fire, and now that he had stopped it became all the harder to coax his frame into movement once more. Still, he had no choice, not if he wanted to keep up with Thorin, who had already swept off, all but marching down the corridor with a pair of his own soldiers in tow.

Biting back a curse, Bilbo lurched after them, slipping around the guards' bulk to fall into clumsy, stumbling step at Thorin's side. His footsteps made no sound on the bare stone floor, like those of a ghost: an unwitnessed intruder in his own life. 

Except that he was not dead, nor forgotten. He could not convince himself otherwise, not when Thorin's eyes blazed with intensity, determined on his goal. He looked as if he were lining up words of frantic reprimand for Bilbo whenever he returned: a desperate, heartfelt litany about the dangers that could befall anyone within Erebor's dark heart. Political intrigues aside, the kingdom was a dangerous place. Though Bilbo had never been permitted near the open mine faces or down in the forges, Thorin knew him well enough to at least suspect that his curiosity had got the better of him.

'It hasn't, you know,' he pointed out. 'I've stayed away, just as I promised. I might be foolish, but I'm not completely stupid.'

Thorin stopped so suddenly that his guards almost collided with his back, his gaze scanning the corridor, interrogating the shadows. 

'Thorin?' Bilbo asked, his breath catching in his throat as he stumbled forward, standing right in front of him. The urge to reach out tingled along his fingers, but he restrained himself. The Valar only knew what would happen if he took Thorin's hand in his own. At best, he would feel nothing. At worst he would be racked with pain, just as Bilbo had been when he'd tried to pull the rock into the shadow realm. 'Thorin, can you hear me?'

For one, shocking moment Thorin's eyes met his, dazzlingly blue in the odd, washed out world of the ring. They cut through the mist that veiled the landscape, peeling it back until Bilbo could almost feel how near their two spheres were: a mere bubble that he could not break separating him from all that he loved. 

A moment later, the connection fractured as Thorin looked away, giving his head a small shake before he pushed on. If he had sensed something, he had written it off, excusing it as the product of a tired mind or growing concern. And who could blame him? Bilbo could barely believe what had happened to him, and he was living it!

The council garden opened out before them, separated from the mountain by thick, wooden doors which had been flung wide to the fresh spring air. It had been Bilbo's idea after he noticed how fraught things could get when they were all trapped inside for too long. 

A large fire pit danced with a merry blaze, taking the icy edge from the breeze, and comfortable chairs ranged around it in a circle to put whoever was called to meet there at their ease. The first shoots of the bulbs he had planted were starting to show their faces, and a soft carpet of moss thrived underfoot.

Thorin's guards stopped at a respectful distance, leaving him to approach the Elven king and wizard where they lounged. Gandalf had a mug of ale, while Thranduil gripped the stem of one of the few wine-glasses in the entire mountain. Both looked up to watch the king's approach, and Bilbo flinched as he realised that the ring’s power stripped Thranduil’s glamour away, revealing the ruined half of his face and the shiny scars upon the hand that held his drink.

Thorin sighed, bowing his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Has either of you seen Master Baggins?'

Thranduil opened his mouth, but he seemed to think better of whatever scathing wisdom he had been about to impart. Instead, he set his wineglass aside, balancing it neatly on a small table. 'You've misplaced him?'

'He's wandered off,' Gandalf corrected, his gaze knowing. 'As is his wont.'

'So it seems.' Thorin sank into one of the chairs, his elbows on his knees and his back bowed. Normally, he would never show any hint of weakness in front of Thranduil, but either he was too distracted or too worried to care about the message his posture might convey. 'I've got the Company looking for him. Quietly. Carefully. I do not need the whole mountain sharing my concern. Not yet.'

'A wise choice,' Thranduil conceded. 'It would not do to unsettle your subjects prematurely.' He brushed a speck from his robes. 'And they would be unsettled. They have taken quite a liking to Master Baggins.' He raised an eyebrow, but the harsh judgement that could have pinched his expression instead softened with a faint smile of understanding. 'He seems quite talented in that regard.'

Gandalf narrowed his eyes. 'What do you fear, Thorin?' he asked, smiling when Thorin gave a rough laugh. 'The mountain is as safe as any Dwarven hall can be.'

'Yet it is dangerous still. The mines, the forges... Though I do not believe Bilbo has ventured there.' Thorin shook his head, his grimace becoming more pronounced as he rested a hand over his heart: an idle, absent gesture as a moue of pain twisted his face. 'No, it is not that. Something feels... wrong. I cannot put it into words. It is no nameless dread or idle concern. Something is amiss.' 

He lifted his chin, as if daring elf and wizard alike to mock his confession. Bilbo added the weight of his own glare, not that it would do any good. Besides, it was unnecessary. Neither of them uttered a dismissal, but instead offered nods of understanding.

'The heart often knows what the mind does not.' Gandalf reached for his staff, using it to lever himself from his seat.

'Do you suspect foul play?' Thranduil asked.

Thorin's beads chimed as he shook his head. 'Nori thinks not. Besides, despite our difficulties, there is little unrest within Erebor's walls.' He got to his feet again, too restless to remain seated, his stride quick and furious. It took him in helpless, aimless circles around the fire, a prowling wolf, and Bilbo's heart panged in earnest regret. He could not recall the last time he had seen Thorin so tense. Even his quest for the Arkenstone had not found him so frantic – all thanks to a few hours of Bilbo's absence.

If he had ever doubted Thorin's devotion, the scene before him would have cast all reservations to the four winds. 

The sound of hurried footsteps rang out, harsh on stone then softened by the moss. They clanged and hissed in Bilbo's ears, unnatural, and he shifted closer to the fire's vibrant glow as he turned to face the Company. 

They were all there, every single one. Fili and Kili led them, their eyes wide and their mouths pressed in thin, serious lines. It was an alien sight on their youthful faces. Even after the battle, injured as they were, they had brightened everyone's spirits with their jokes and joy. Now, in the realm of the ring, Bilbo could see the dark cloud shrouding them both: a hungry, voracious thing that seemed to devour all the light it touched.

Fear. Bilbo didn't need to know its face to recognise the feeling. It chilled the already cold air, robbing him of what little heat the fire bestowed.

'He's not here.' Fili swallowed, looking as if the words were ripping themselves, bloody, from his tongue. 'We've looked everywhere. It's like he just... vanished.'

'We didn't check the mine depths,' Kili added quietly. 'Nor the waters in the dock. If he fell…'

'No.' Thorin's hand sliced through the air as he turned his face away, rejecting the notion with every line of his body. 'Could he have gone into Dale? To the market?'

'If he did, none saw him leave.' Bofur clutched his hat, creasing it beneath the worried twist of his fingers. 'No mounts have been taken, and we checked with the guards at each door. Unless he knows a way out that we don't, then he's not left the peak.'

'So where is he?'

Silence met Thorin's rough question. No one had an answer for him, and Bilbo knew that, try as he might, there was no way to make himself heard. The ring's world sucked the sound from his lips and pitched it away on the ceaseless wind. It was ridiculous, being so near and yet so far: close enough to touch but unable to do so! 

'It's not...' Balin trailed off, deep lines carving into his face as he seemed to summon the courage to speak. 'Is it possible that he has left?' 

'No!' Bilbo cried, shaking his head fiercely, but to no avail. No one could see or hear him; he was nothing but a ghost, dead but not.

Thorin closed his eyes, a flinch of pain dashing across his features before he stifled it. 'Without wishing any of us farewell?' he husked. 'Even if his urge to return to the Shire were so great, he would take the time to bring things here to a close. To make his goodbyes. A burglar he may be, but a coward he is not.'

Tunnelling his fingers through his hair, Bilbo snarled, grimacing when even the grey air swallowed that noise whole. He needed to do something. Needed to discover a way to let them know he was still right here, standing among them. 

One last, futile yank at the ring did not remove it from his finger, and he stared around, his eyes wide and frantic. He could not leave his friends like this, succumbing to their worst, illogical fears. They were as fond of him as he was of them, but this stupid situation turned it all to fragile glass, giving senseless doubts the opportunity to take root. 

Well, he would not let them grow into choking vines. He would not allow them to smother the friendships he treasured! He would pay any price; suffer any pain. There had to be something he could do!

He lashed out with his foot, kicking thoughtlessly at the ground. His toe caught a pebble and, to his surprise, sent it sailing across the garden. It thumped on the moss and skittered to a halt on the nearby flagstones, spinning in place. 

Every eye followed the movement, and yet no one questioned it. Not one word was spoken, and Bilbo shook his head in disbelief, watching his friends write off the bizarre occurrence as a trick of their minds.

He needed something else; something no one could ignore. Clearly, bringing objects into the world of the ring with him was no easy task, but pushing things? That, it seemed, he could do without breaking a sweat.

A sparkle of weak spring sunlight caught his eye, and a grin sliced across his face as he noticed Thranduil's wineglass, half-full and still perched where he had left it. Darting over, he swiped at it, sending the fragile vessel flying not towards the fire, but onto the flagstones that surrounded the circle of moss. The glass broke, shattering into a hundred starry fragments as the red wine pooled its challenge.

A curse escaped Thranduil's lips, slender hands curling in the folds of his robes as he stepped back. 'I believe that, perhaps, we are not alone.'

Bilbo beamed in triumph, but his smile soon fell away as he watched everyone tense. The dwarves reached for their weapons, scanning the empty air with blatant distrust. Gandalf's staff gleamed with a hoary, painful light, and Thranduil interrogated the world with his piercing, scarred glare. 

With a huff he couldn't hear, Bilbo padded over to the spilt wine, biting his lip as he considered his options. The cool sunshine at least prevented its swift evaporation, and he got down on his hands and knees before drawing a shaky finger through the liquid.

He feared it would hurt, just as it had when picking up the pebble, but this was different. He was not trying to pull the wine to him, but push it along the ground. His fingertip burned and blazed, hot and cold in equal measure, his nerves shrieking their protest, but he persevered, tracing out five letters and hoping it would be enough.

"Stuck."

'What in Mahal's name is going on?' Dwalin demanded, his teeth bared as he glared around for an enemy he couldn't see.

‘Bilbo!' Ori cried, pointing to the clumsy letters. 'That's Bilbo's handwriting!'

'Indeed it is, Master Ori.' Gandalf grunted, bringing the end of his staff down onto the ground with a solid thud. Light rolled out from the crystal at its peak, an interface of warmth that washed over Bilbo in soft green waves, chasing back the chill grey that pressed in at him from all sides. The power rose, intensifying with each beat of his heart, and Bilbo got to his feet, his head cocked as he waited for Gandalf's roving gaze to fix upon his face. 'There you are.'

Invisible fish hooks caught in Bilbo's clothes, plucking at him as if Gandalf were trying to pull him free from the ring's realm. The next moment, they dug into flesh and caught on bone. The soothing green took on a blazing bright edge, its colour acid as the wind strengthened to a fierce gale, fighting to keep Bilbo within its folds even as Gandalf tried to wrest him loose.

'Stop!' Bilbo sucked in a pained breath, shaking his head as he flung up his hands in Gandalf's direction. Pain sizzled along his arms, setting up its seethe beneath his skin. 'I don't – I don't think it will work. I just need to get this blasted ring off my finger!'

Gandalf hummed in consideration, ignoring the puzzled questions from the dwarves that rose around them both. With smooth grace that belied his age, he reversed his staff, tapping the crystal on the ground with a gentle, decisive motion. 

The scene wavered, the air filling with a single, solemn note like the toll of a bell. The garden turned glassy at its edges, the moss brittle underfoot, and Bilbo blinked as the misty sunlight regained some of its normal intensity. He was not out of the ring's realm, not yet, but whatever Gandalf had done had thinned the distance between here and there, shifting aside the obscuring veils.

He stood on one side of a line: a boundary between colour and shade, life and death. At first glance, it looked like he could merely step across, striding out and into the real world that he called his home, but something warned Bilbo that such an attempt would be foolish. Possibly even fatal.

'Bilbo!' Thorin started forward, his hand outstretched before he stopped himself, those blue eyes bright with a thousand questions. 'What happened?'

Bilbo looked down at the ring on his finger, fighting the ridiculous urge to tuck his hands in his pockets and hide it from sight. 'I'm stuck. The ring is – ' He blew out a breath, realising he would have to start from the beginning, and be quick about it. Gandalf did not appear to have any difficulty keeping the ring's realm pressed against the real one, but would he show any sign of it if the burden became too great? 

'I found it back in the Misty Mountains. It turns me invisible, or – or something. I slipped it on today, just to get a bit of peace and quiet but now I – I can't get it off.' He slumped his shoulders, his cheeks burning with embarrassment at his own stupidity. A situation not helped by Gandalf’s inevitable reprimand.

'Foolish hobbit,' Gandalf snapped, straightening where he stood. 'Show me.' 

Bilbo hesitated, his body half-turning on its own accord. A low, hissing voice whispered in his mind, telling him not to do as Gandalf said. He should run and hide. Tuck himself and the ring away forever. Didn't they know it was his? His discovery. His treasure. 

His precious.

'Bilbo Baggins.' Gandalf's voice deepened, the springtime shadows growing darker and longer as the air became thick with magic. Even Bilbo, distant but near as he was, could feel the weight of it: a heaviness upon his shoulder and a light within his mind, pushing back the questing tendrils of shadow that tried to infiltrate his thoughts. 'I do not do this to hurt you, old friend.' His words eased, the power slackening as a smile curved his lips. 'I do it to help you.'

Bilbo thrust his right hand out in front of him, glaring at the buttery gleam of the ring that banded his finger. ‘It won’t budge,' he croaked, not daring to meet the gaze his friends. He felt raw and jittery, embarrassed and battered by the constant chafe of the ring's realm against his body. 'I've been trying for ages.'

Gandalf did not reach for him. Perhaps that remained impossible, but he did examine the ring as closely as he could, his eyes narrow and thoughtful. 'There are many magical rings in Middle Earth. Some are little more than trinkets, while others could change the course of world as we know it. You said you found it in the Misty Mountains? And you've had it ever since?' 

'Yes.'

'You should consider yourself fortunate that nothing more has befallen you than this,' Gandalf grumbled.

'At least it was not merely Hobbit ingenuity that helped you all escape from my prison,' Thranduil mused, his faint smile falling serious as Bilbo glared at him. 'Tell me what you have tried.'

'Pulling, mostly. I can't move things from where you are to here. Not easily. What I'm wearing comes with me, and so does what's in my pockets, but...' He spread his hands, making a show of looking around himself at the wavering uncertainty of the world he occupied. 'There's nothing useful here at all.' He dropped his arms to his side, ducking his head. 'I didn't mean to cause such a fuss.'

'I'm just glad you're all right,' Thorin promised, shooting a quelling look in Gandalf's direction before he could utter any more insults about Bilbo's intelligence. 'You're not hurt?'

'Nothing bad. A scrape or two, that's all, and I'm getting cold.'

'How do we get him back?'

Thorin's question was not merely aimed at Gandalf, but lifted to include the rest of the Company in its demand. Most of the dwarves shuffled their feet and shook their heads, but Oin offered a grunt before pulling out a small pot of something. 'Goose fat ointment,' he explained, jerking his head in Bombur's direction. 'Got it from the kitchens not an hour ago. Good for dry hands and slippery as anything. It'll get that ring off, if we can get it to him.'

'And if not?'

'He's got his sword,' Dwalin pointed out, offering little comfort but a shrug and a grimace. 'You could always cut the ring off.'

'And my finger with it? No thank you!' Bilbo folded his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits as if to protect them. Not that he could blame Dwalin for his suggestion. He thought like a soldier, and it was not as if the same notion had not fluttered across Bilbo's mind. 'Is there nothing you can do?'

'My talents lie in illusion.' Thranduil explained, his slender shoulders moving in a shrug. 'I'm afraid my knowledge is of little use to you.'

'Yet your illusions do more than trick the eye,' Gandalf mused, taking the pot from Oin and turning it over in his hands. 'They deceive the mind and betray the senses. To all intents and purposes, they are doorways between possibilities. Thresholds between what is real, and what is not. The visible and invisible. I can render Bilbo closer to us than before, so that we may see and hear him, but I cannot intrude upon that realm.'

'And you believe I can?' One of Thranduil's eyebrows lifted, a delicate arch of doubt.

'Create an illusion of that place around this.' Gandalf set the pot of fat down on the ground, resting it on a cushion of lush moss. 'Make it appear as though the interface of that world has moved to include it, and we will see what can be done to nudge the deception into reality.'

Bilbo blinked, sharing a confused look with Thorin. While he understood the words as the wizard uttered them, his precise meaning escaped him. It sounded as if Gandalf were suggesting they wish the goose fat to Bilbo's side!

It sounded ludicrous, but perhaps if the people doing the wishing were an Istar and an Elf, then anything was possible. He would have to hope for the best, since the only other options were for him to attempt to drag it to his side, or mutilate his hand to escape the ring's clutches. 

Both paths would cause him more pain than he wished to consider. 

Thranduil swept a strand of hair from his forehead and focussed, those bright eyes turning diamond hard as he called upon the powers in his possession. There were no grand hand-waving or murmured words. He did not perform for his audience of curious dwarves. The only physical sign of his efforts was the way he straightened, his shoulders forming a rigid line as a visceral gleam of sweat appeared upon his brow, so at odds with his usual poised grace that Bilbo could not help but stare.

Inch-by-inch, change crept across the land. The moss around the pot lost its verdancy, turning pewter and black as the colour leached away. The clay pot, too, became drab, drained of its warm tones to match the gloom that surrounded Bilbo on all sides. It was a small pool of greys amidst a coloured world, resting right on the edge of where Bilbo's stormy space drew a line through the natural hues of Middle-earth.

'It fights me,' Thranduil whispered, his pale face chalky: a papery background for the old scars only Bilbo could see. He did not believe the glamour had fallen away, but the ring's world did not allow the elf the comfort of his mask. Would it accept Thranduil's efforts, such as they were? Would Gandalf be able to do as he hoped, and make apparitions into solid reality?

'A little longer,' Gandalf whispered, the lines of age upon his face so dark that it seemed as though they were drawn in ink. His wiry frame shook with the effort of whatever he did, his hand locked in a death grip around the staff. 

Never before had Bilbo seen him struggle so. The wizard’s magics were often subtle things, nudging the world into a different shape or filling it with wonderful fireworks. Yet this idea, so easily put into words by those older and wiser than his hobbit self, cost him more dearly than Bilbo could imagine. He looked like a man holding back the raging ocean, or trying to move a mountain ten times Erebor's size. 

All around him, the ring's realm snarled in response. The air shimmered with it, no longer brimming with a gale but breathless and intent. 

Alive.

He wasn't alone.

Bilbo spun around, the hairs along his arms prickling in awareness. His gaze darted back and forth, but though he could see nothing, he could still feel the weight of some unknown scrutiny. It slipped into the dark places of his mind and skimmed ghostly fingers over his memories. It was not intelligent, not yet, but Bilbo sensed the potential: a sleeping dragon, poised on the brink of waking to raze the world once more.

'Bilbo, now!'

He whipped around, staring at the clay pot at his feet. The old stoneware darkened, cracking, as though it could not stand the strain of this alien place. Yet it was there, real and solid as he grabbed it off the floor and ripped off the seal with his fingernails. His hands shook as the wind picked up again, a breeze becoming a hurricane in the blink of an eye. Sand he could not see scoured his face, biting at his eyes. He bowed his head, trying to escape its fury as he scooped a dollop of goose fat free from its container and smeared it liberally over his finger. 

'Twist it,' Oin advised, his barked orders sounding further away than before. Bilbo looked up, realising that the film between him and the real world had grown translucent, the fog thickening. It sent a rash of panic through him. Never, in all his time wearing the ring, had he felt as if he were somewhere else. He'd always assumed that he existed in some other, unseen layer. Now, the distance grew. If he couldn't get the ring off, and soon, he suspected he would be stuck here, nothing but a wraith amidst a ghostly, sinister realm.

No. No, he'd take Dwalin's suggestion before he let that happen. He'd chop off his own damn finger and the ring with it before he was trapped in this inhospitable place!

With an almighty heave, he yanked at the ring, feeling his knuckles pop beneath the force as pain screamed over his skin. At first, he thought it wouldn't budge – could almost believe the thrice-damned thing was getting smaller of its own accord – then, between one breathless moment and the next, it slipped off.

Colour and sound rushed back in, flooding his senses. Strong arms were around him in an instant. He'd have been on the floor without their support, of that he was certain. His body didn't seem to know what to do with itself. His finger hurt like the blazes, and waves of heat and chill dashed through him, leaving him breathless. The dizzy whirl of his head made his stomach rebel, and he swallowed greasy nausea as he slumped gratefully against Thorin's chest.

'Got it,' he breathed, opening his palm to reveal the sullen golden gleam of the ring. 'Thank you.'

'You can thank us by never being so foolish again!' Gandalf barked, his eyes blazing. 'To rely so fully on some unknown power. To use it on a whim!' He trailed off, too irate to put his anger into words. 

Bilbo’s mother had scolded him similarly, a score or more years ago. The fury came from a place of fear, and Bilbo wondered just how close he had come to being lost for good. He'd have had his solitude then, for the rest of his days, if he were any judge. 

The notion held little appeal.

'Are you all right?' Thorin murmured, his embrace warm and tender around Bilbo's body. His stalwart strength felt like a balm to Bilbo's frailty, and he drew in a breath, relishing the scent of Thorin's clothes and skin.

'I will be,' he promised, closing his eyes and allowing himself a few moment's weary respite. His hands hurt, his middle finger throbbing from the ring's abuse, but there was little in the way of physical harm to him. The rest of his hurts seemed to live under his flesh, out of sight but close to mind. 'I'm sorry.'

Thorin shook his head, dropping a chaste kiss to Bilbo's curls. 'Let Oin have a look at you, then take some rest.'

Bilbo could not argue with either assessment. The comfortable bed he and Thorin shared called his name, and a fresh wave of exhaustion swamped him. His body keened for respite, preferably in the warm sanctuary of his lover's arms. 

Thorin would oblige if he asked, of that he was certain, but there were still questions to answer. He could feel them brewing in the air around him like a storm. Uncertainty clouded the sunshine of his friends' relief, and Gandalf's expression remained thunderous. Only a glimmer of kindness in his blue eyes offered any reprieve, and Bilbo met that gaze, lifting his chin and holding out his palm.

'I don't think this should stay here.' He straightened, easing free from Thorin's arms to stand his own ground. 'I know you think me a fool, and you would be right, but nothing like that has ever happened before.' He pointed over his shoulder, as if the ring's realm were still in evidence at his back. 'It's never been pleasant, using it: cold and dark, but… There was something else there. Something... not good.'

Gandalf's expression eased, the anger fading to be replaced by serious consideration. He did not scoff and cast away Bilbo's statements as the idle imaginings of a halfling. Nor, to his surprise, did Thranduil. He stared at the ring in Bilbo's hand with a strange mixture of longing and revulsion, as if he craved its touch but abhorred its presence.

'You would give it up?' Gandalf asked, curiosity a light veneer over his words. 'Only a short while ago you seemed to feel differently.'

'That was before its world tried to eat me.' Bilbo pressed his lips into a thin line, fighting off the greedy, whispering refrain in the back of his head: the litany of protest that would have him hide it from all their questing eyes. That was not him, thinking that, but something else. Something he never wanted to sense again. 'I would never have found my way home. I'm sure of it. It's had its uses, but the risk is too great.'

Gandalf nodded, patting at his pockets before turning to Ori. 'Parchment, if you have it, Master Ri. An envelope would be best.'

Ori's nimble fingers dove inside his robes and tweaked free a little paper pouch, holding it out for Gandalf. The young dwarf blinked when the wizard instead motioned to Bilbo. Taking the envelope, Bilbo tipped his hand over its pouting mouth. The metal of the ring clung to his palm for a breathless moment before it fell, with a shimmer, into the confines of its new home.

Gandalf snatched it from him, tucking the flap down and sealing it away with a firm stroke of his fingers. Immediately, Bilbo felt the air change. He had not noticed the leaden expectation that surrounded him – the taut, charged edge to the atmosphere – until it fled, letting the springtime sunshine warm them once more. 'I will take it with me when I depart on the morrow, and see what I can discover.'

'You're leaving so soon?' Bilbo blinked. It was the first he had heard of the wizard's plans, and the abruptness of Gandalf's decision felt like a blow.

'Yes.' Thorin's voice, strong and sure, left no room for argument. 'He must. That ring, there is something attached to it, some power. It feels akin to the Arkenstone.' He bowed his head. 'I did not sense it until I knew of it, but the urge to take it from you, to keep it for myself...' He looked down at his hands, his jaw tense and his shame evident to Bilbo's gaze. 'It cannot – must not – stay here. Not a moment longer than necessary.'

Bilbo bit his lip, wondering at the ring's change in power. It had been relatively harmless when he had first won it from Gollum. Even in the times he had used it since, it had not been so vicious. Now it became something monstrous, and all those aware of it seemed touched by its darkness. There was not a dwarf among the Company who did not keep shooting furtive looks at the envelope in Gandalf's hand, and Thranduil had beckoned one of the guards and ordered a wineskin, as if struggling to settle his nerves.

'I suggest,' Gandalf began, 'that we keep this to ourselves until I know more. There is no need to involve the Dwarven council for a mere trinket, nor is it necessary for us to inform the other elven realms.' 

Thranduil's nod of agreement seem to put the old wizard at his ease, and a faint smile curved his lips as he approached Bilbo, bending at the knee to be on Bilbo's level as a gnarled, comforting hand rested upon his shoulder. 'Let Oin examine you, and think not on what you felt when wearing the ring. You saw yourself how hard it was for things to move between this world and that one. Now, without you, any presence there has no emissary.'

Bilbo nodded, wishing he could be so sure. Even now, with all the wizard had seen, Bilbo suspected he thought of the ring as nothing but a spiteful frippery, tainted by some evil, rather than anything more. Yet Bilbo could not shake the sensation of some great, blind eye finding its sight. Of something ancient and evil gaining another fraction of its strength, and all because of him. 

With a sigh, he swallowed his fear. There was nothing more he could do, and though it did not feel like it, he suspected that handing the ring to Gandalf counted as a victory. He would take it away from here, from Bilbo and from Erebor, and perhaps in doing so he would steer them all from some dark, unknown path.

'Here. Sit.' Oin bustled forward, urging Bilbo into one of the nearby chairs before ordering Bofur to go and fetch him supplies from the healing rooms. The rest of the Company disbanded at Thorin's order, patting Bilbo's shoulder or murmuring their relief as they went back to their duties. Even Thranduil bowed his farewell as Gandalf shuffled off to prepare for his departure. In the end, only Thorin and the guards remained alongside Oin, who tutted and clucked over Bilbo's ravaged fingertips and swollen hand.

'Nasty business. I recall when Thorin's mother got an old ring stuck on her finger. She hit it with a hammer and it swelled right up, jamming the blasted thing in place.'

'What did you do?' Bilbo asked.

'Submerged it in cold water to take down the swelling. We got it off eventually, but she was spitting furious about it. Few dwarves wear rings for much the same reason.' He reached out, running gentle fingers over Bilbo's swollen flesh before encouraging him to bend his knuckles. It hurt, bruised and sore, but at least the digit would still flex at his command. 'We'll do the same for this. Thorin, the stream is meltwater.' He gestured to the brook that babbled at the garden’s edge. 'A cupful will do it.'

Thorin did as he was asked without question. There were few dwarves within Erebor's halls who would think to give orders to their king, but Oin did not bat an eye. Everyone knew healers had superiority in all but name, and no-one was foolish enough to challenge their authority.

Bilbo hissed as the icy, clear water engulfed his finger, biting at his flesh and robbing his hand of what little heat it had. Soon, it began to soothe his raw skin, replacing it with a dull ache. 'How long do I need to leave it in there?' he asked.

'A quarter of an hour, at least. We'll need to do it thrice more this afternoon, just to be on the safe side.' Oin grimaced, murmuring his thanks as Bofur delivered his salves. He cleaned Bilbo's other, bloody fingertips with competent swipes, dabbing ointment against ragged skin. 'You'll sit here 'til the first soak’s done. If nothing else you look like the rest will do you good.' 

Bilbo couldn't argue with that. He felt as if he had hiked up to Erebor's peak, muscles burning and his chest too tight to manage his next proper breath. Never, in the past, had he known the ring to take so much from him. He wondered what had changed since he used it last. Not that it mattered. It would never grace his finger again; of that he was certain. 'I am sorry,' he repeated, more for Thorin's benefit, though Oin gave him a fond smile in return. 'If I'd known what it would do – '

'Do not concern yourself with that,' Thorin murmured, pulling one of the chairs over so that he could sit close to Bilbo's side and take his uninjured hand into his warm, calloused grasp. 'I know how much you crave your solitude at times. I am only sorry you had to resort to such measures to attain it.'

'It wasn't very relaxing,' Bilbo confessed. 'Not that it's ever been a particularly kind place. I only used it to slip away without people asking questions, except then I couldn't get it off again.' He wiggled his fingers in the cold water, wrinkling his nose as ripples lapped the sides of the cup. 'Don't blame the guards. It's my fault, not theirs.'

'I won't. I'll also talk to Dwalin. We will find a compromise.' Thorin lifted his hand, brushing a quick kiss to Bilbo's knuckles as Oin grumbled in protest. 'One that means you can have the peace you crave without putting yourself in danger.' 

He sounded tense, as if his mind still grappled with some invisible fear, and Bilbo remembered the quiet questions about whether he could have left the mountain without so much as a single farewell. They had never really talked about it, his going back to the Shire. Bilbo hadn't thought it necessary. He'd given no indication that his home still awaited him halfway across Middle-earth. Now, he realised his mistake. He might not have needed to say it, but Thorin needed to hear it. 

'I'm not leaving.' Bilbo lifted his chin, feeling a fraction of his strength return as he spoke with confidence. 'Not with Gandalf tomorrow, or in the summer, or any when after that. You said there was a place for me here, with you. As long as that remains true, I'm staying.'

Thorin's smile was a thing of beauty, slow to begin but heartfelt, lifting years from his face with its glow and lighting his eyes with simple joy. A weight vanished from those strong shoulders, and Bilbo could have kicked himself for not seeing it sooner. How long had Thorin been worrying that he would up and go?

Even now, he spoke of compromise as if that was the price to pay for Bilbo's presence. Nothing could be further from the truth. It would take something rash – something disastrous – to prise Bilbo from this mountain and the king that ruled it. Thorin would have to be the one to cast him away, and Bilbo could not bring himself to envision such a future.

'I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner.' He shook his head, wringing his hands and wincing as the scrapes upon his skin stung and burned. 'I thought you knew.'

Thorin bowed his head, his brow resting against Bilbo’s. The tips of their noses touched as a sense of peace washed over them both. Thorin’s voice may be nothing but a whisper, but his reply brimmed with earnest, wonderful emotion.

‘I do now.’

And maybe Bilbo’s head was still a little addled from his time in the land of the ring, or perhaps his hopeless, helpless heart was lost in a flight of fancy, but to his ears Thorin’s reassurance sounded like a promise.

A vow of love that would last the rest of their years and beyond.

**Author's Note:**

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